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L. M.


Weeping Seedtime; Joyful Harvest.

The darkened sky, how thick it lowers!

Troubled with storms, and big with showers,

No cheerful gleam of light appears,

But nature pours forth all her tears.

Yet let the sons of God revive;

He bids the soul that seeks Him live,

And from the gloomiest shade of night

Calls forth a morning of delight.

The seeds of ecstasy unknown

Are in these watered furrows sown;

See the green blades, how thick they rise,

And with fresh verdure bless our eyes!

In secret foldings they contain

Unnumbered ears of golden grain;

And heaven shall pour its beams around,

Till the ripe harvest load the ground.

Then shall the trembling mourner come,

And bind his sheaves, and bear them home,

The voice long broke with sighs shall sing,

Till heaven with hallelujahs ring.

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